


Asexual Affections [Meeks + Pitts]

by flaming_homosexual



Series: Dead Poets One-Shots [4]
Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Poetry, Pre-Slash, Slash, cute gays being cute gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flaming_homosexual/pseuds/flaming_homosexual
Summary: Meeks writes a poem about his asexuality and asexual relationship with Pitts for Keating’s class.
Relationships: Steven Meeks/Gerard Pitts
Series: Dead Poets One-Shots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059998
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Asexual Affections [Meeks + Pitts]

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this poem for an English class about my own asexual (allo(?)romantic) experience and decided to write a fic for it. I hope you enjoy!

Silence fell over the teenage poets, jaws dropped in awe at Todd, who’s shuffling his feet at the front of the class. Neil broke the silence with his enthusiastic applause, meeting Todd’s gaze with an empathetic, toothy grin. The rest of the boys followed Neil’s lead, breaking from astonishment to commend Todd on his remarkable impromptu poem. As Todd passed back to his seat, Neil patted his shoulder gently in support.

As Todd settled back into his seat, an anxious Steven Meeks flipped open his pocket-sized notepad, once again reviewing what he had written. His nose scrunched up in distaste as it wasn’t his best writing. He considered quickly scrawling another one out on the next page, but a small voice in the back of his mind wouldn’t let him. Besides, there’s some part of him that’s happy to use his poem as the closest thing to a public display of affection he’ll probably ever be allowed.

Mr. Keating straightened, “All right.” He scanned the room of anxious adolescents with a smile in his eyes, “Who’s next on the chopping block?”

Eyes darted everywhere but Keating. Some students slumped further into their desks, trying to make themselves as small as possible. Charlie looks like he’s examining any possible way to run out of class without receiving the detention of a lifetime. Seeing as nobody else was willing, Meeks raised his hand. Keating gratefully accepted his offer, Meeks stepping in front of the class.

As Meeks made his way up the boys began muttering amongst themselves. In their moment of distraction, Meeks sneaks a glance at the subject of his poem, the boy that silently holds his affections, Gerard Pitts. 

Meeks hadn’t planned on falling for him, but then again who plans falling in love? It’s called falling for a reason, after all. You don’t expect it to happen, and hell, sometimes you aren’t even happy about it, but it’s ineffable. However, it was a slow process, falling for Pitts. Study sessions spent working on the radio, chatting with one another during breakfast while the rest of the poets mingled, grabbing one another coffee during late-night philosophical chats; all the little things added up to their slowly dawning romantic realizations.

Over the summer they went on a road trip together, spent a weekend at Thayer’s Beach for a meteor shower. Drove into town that morning, enjoying lunch at a relaxed pizza parlor by the seaside. They enjoyed each other’s company, swapping stories and ideas for stargazing over a plain pie. 

That night they set up on the secluded beach, undisturbed except for the waves lapping against the shore. The duo huddled on the hood of Pitts’ beat up sedan. Meeks covered the hood with a plaid blanket, cushioning the duo as they lay back to watch the meteors fly past. Well, their eyes flicked between the stars and the other young man lying by their side. Meeks would look at Pitts, then turn to gazing at the stars before the Pitts would gaze at the boy of his affections while he was distracted by meteors tumbling above them. 

At first neither of them made a move. After all, love like theirs wasn’t spoken of. Mostly thrown as an insult for someone seen as inferior or weak. 

After a while, in a moment of sheer, unparalleled bravery, Meeks rested his head on Pitts’ shoulder, and Pitts...put an arm around him. Surprised, Meeks tensed up a bit, stealing a quick look into Pitts’ adoring, olive eyes which, surprisingly, were staring right back at him. They laid there frozen under the stars, breathing in each other’s scent and the joyous newness of their proximity and gentle affections. 

Meeks adjusted, leaning on his elbow for support. He admired Pitts, reaching out and cupping his moonlight-outlined cheek in his palm. He ran a thumb down Pitts’ cheekbone in an attempt to memorize the exact curvature of the face he finds more beautiful than any of the stars they saw. Meeks sighed wistfully, leaning his head closer to Pitts’. Was this actually happening? Meeks thought he had to be dreaming because something like this, something this good, this tender, this safe, could never happen while awake.

“Steve,” Pitts interrupted Meeks’ thoughts. “Can I kiss you?”

Meeks all but melted in that moment, barely managing a “yes” that ghosted Pitts’ lips before finding their home against them. All Meeks can think is goddamn, where has this been all his life? This feeling of security, of Pitts’ arms wrapped around his waist, daring to pull Meeks closer. 

“Mr. Meeks,” Mr. Keating pulled the teen from his reminiscing. Keating sat on his desk, turning his attention to the ginger at the front of the room. “The floor is yours.”

Meeks peered down at his poem, clearing his throat awkwardly. He dared to glance up for a moment, finding short comfort in Pitts’ encouraging smile. Meeks breathed, fire prickling to his neck and cheeks.

“ _ Above all, the mind sneaks into my affections _

_ As much as logic cries out its objections _ ”

Meeks stifled a smile. He’d spent far too many nights wrestling with his feelings. They were often sleepless, anxious evenings spent with his head crammed in a book yet never turning the pages. It was a sick metaphor, in a way.

“ _ I’m not one to swoon, I don’t fall for looks _

_ My soul years for comfort tangled in nooks _

_ And crannies of a person’s spirit _ ”

This part was painfully true. Until embarrassingly recently Steven thought people were kidding when they said they were physically attracted to someone. He always assumed that meant they found the person attractive, nice to look at, not that they felt a primal, sexual urge when they saw someone fitting the description of “hot.”

“ _ Don’t get me wrong, my brain still goes haywire _

_ Each time they discuss the world they desire _

_ And I still yearn for the feeling, sublime _

_ The feel of their fingers rested in mine _ ”

That feeling was truly like none other. The contentment of your beloved’s hand rested in your own is a sense of calm cannot be found in nature, and yet is the most natural, soothing sensation in the entirety of creation.

“ _ Out of romance I want nothing more _

_ Not the explicit exploits youths are known for _ ”

Meeks swallowed some fear at the muttering that line caused. He pressed forward regardless.

“ _ The passion and heat feels all to much _

_ Could we not settle for the simple, light touch _

_ The kind that has lightning prickling at your cheeks _

_ And has all your troubles laying at your feet _

_ Surrendering to your love’s feathery embrace _

_ That refined, kind feeling sex could never replace _ ”

As the last words left his tongue, Meeks breathed for the first time that class. The silence echoing through the room was deafening, a painful absence of sound. Then, from the back of the room, an overzealous whistle followed by applause brought balance to the universe. Thank goodness for Charlie Dalton. 

“Wonderful poem, Mr. Meeks,” Mr. Keating excused the young poet back to his seat. 

Meeks slinked back in his seat sheepishly as he received compliments from his friends. He settled into his chair, his electric nerves lulling into a low buzz while preparing to play the role of audience for the rest of the period. Although, that was before Pitts had turned around and rested his chin in the crook of his hand between his pointer finger and thumb. Upon closer inspection, Meeks realized he was sneakily telling Meeks “I love you” in sign language. 

The poet’s heart flipped into its buzzing state once more. Meeks weakly muttered in embarrassment, hiding his head in his sweater-clad forearm on the desk. Underneath his desk, however, he sent the message back with an outstretched pointer, pinkie and thumb.


End file.
